


More Than You Know

by bactaqueen



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Comfort Sex, Cunnilingus, F/M, Skinny!Steve, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-13
Updated: 2014-09-13
Packaged: 2018-02-17 06:02:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2299100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bactaqueen/pseuds/bactaqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn't want to go home tonight, so he goes to her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	More Than You Know

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Recognizable characters belong to their respective owners. No profit is earned and no infringement is intended.

Steve knows better than to show up at Ruth's door unannounced, but it's easier to bring himself here than to go home. There's an emptiness inside him that can't be filled with sketches of Brooklyn or stories about heroes he'll never be or letters to Bucky and his one-room apartment is too empty and silent tonight. He brushes his hair off his forehead and straightens his tie before he knocks.

There's a shuffling on the other side of the paper-thin walls and she calls, "Who's there?"

"It's Steve."

Locks tumble open and she cracks the door. When she sees him, she frowns, and then pulls the door open wide.

"Did you get hit by a train or something?"

He gives her a wry smile. He _feels_ like he got hit by a train. The black eye he's sporting is still tender, but he'd hoped that the cold air during his walk over would have reduced the swelling of it and his lip. She shakes her head and steps aside, waving him in.

"You should see the other guy," he says, passing her, reaching up again to run his fingers through his hair. He squares his shoulders and turns around as she closes the door.

She snorts. "Not a scratch on him, right?"

Steve grins and it hurts. Her place is warm, smells like cinnamon and oranges, and he's wondering if he shouldn't leave when she smiles like she's conspiring with him, not against him. His heart climbs up from his stomach to settle back where it belongs.

Her expression softens and she steps in. She wraps her arms around him and he falls into her--surprising himself with the depth of his need. He hugs her tight and presses his face to her hair. She smells like milk and roses. Steve shuts his eyes and grips her back, warm and skinny through the old silk of her dressing gown, confirming to himself that she is real--real, and doesn't hate him.

It's hard to find people like that these days.

Ruth runs her hands up and down his back over his thin jacket and touches her lips to his cheek. She doesn't say anything.

He lets himself sag against her and he lets himself need her and he lets himself believe that he doesn't have to tell her with words.

She holds him for a long time, her hands on his back and her lips on his cheek. She doesn't ask questions or push him away. When he shifts his weight, she lets him pull her tighter to the front of him. Steve lets himself feel how warm and soft she is, and he lets himself think about how she's ready for bed beneath the robe.

The world starts to fade away.

He sighs and lifts his head. She reaches up to run her fingers through his hair and then cup her fingers at his jaw. She smiles at him, her eyes shining and dark. She leans in and kisses him, soft, then pulls away.

"Take your shoes off. It took me a week to get the mud out of the carpet last time."

Steve laughs. "Sorry."

She shrugs with one shoulder. "Cleaning up after you is good practice." She winks, then plucks at the front of his jacket. "Out of this. Hang it near the radiator, huh? So it can dry." She runs flat hands down the front of him before she steps away. "I was just about to fix a drink. Want one?"

He shrugs out of his jacket, the warmth in his chest growing, spreading. "Yes, please."

She smiles, then digs two fingertips into his belly to urge him along. "Go get comfortable." She disappears through a little doorway.

Steve toes off his shoes and shrugs out of his jacket, and in his mended socks pads across her living room floor. The curtains are drawn against the cold and the radiator is on, spitting out warmth. The heat is reliable here, not like in his place. He hangs his jacket on the end of the curtain rod and turns away from the windows. There's nothing out there for him tonight. Everything he wants is here.

The radio is a big thing in the corner, secondhand with a broken leg, but it works just fine. He glances toward her little kitchen, but can't see her, and he figures music won't hurt anything. He turns it on and fiddles with the knobs until he finds a music program; he leaves it on low, hoping it's just music tonight. He doesn't want to hear the news or a priest.

She's still in the little kitchen, humming to herself, and Steve moves around the living room. There are new books on her shelves and it makes him smile. There's a new blanket on the back of her couch, which is an old-fashioned, heavy velvet thing with carved legs scuffed. He's just settling into one of the curved corners of the couch when she comes out.

She's got a mug in each hand. She gives him one, her fingers brushing his, before she settles at the opposite end of the couch and draws her legs up. One knee pokes through the gap in the front of her dressing gown and she brings her mug up. She blows gently on it, the steam moving in the wake of her breath, and she levels her eyes at him.

"Want to talk about it?" she asks softly.

Steve's heart climbs into his throat. There's nothing to say, nothing he can put into words and adequately convey the truth of it all. So he shakes his head and he sips his drink and he says, "How was your day?" and he hopes that she understands.

She seems to. She stretches one leg the length of the touch and the tips of her toes brush his thigh. She sips her drink, whiskey and water and cinnamon, and she tells him, "Shore leave," in a tone that would be just as suited to discussing the seventh circle of hell.

He winces.

"At least some of the tips are good," she says with a shrug. She raises her drink to her lips once more.

Steve looks down at his own drink, and he doesn't say anything. They sit in silence, sipping cooling whiskey, her toes on his thigh.

When he sets his drink aside and drops his hands to her feet, it seems to be the only thing she was waiting for.

She sets her mug on the coffee table and scoots to him, on her knees, and braces one arm on the back of the couch. When he turns to her, her face is close.

"Come on, Steve," she says, giving him a shy little smile. "I know you want to kiss me."

More than he wants anything else in this moment. He leans in.

Her mouth is warm, soft, wet and open under his. She tastes like cinnamon and whiskey. He puts one hand in her hair and slides the other arm around her, and he draws her into his lap, across it, so he can bend over her and kiss her. She settles, her arms going around his shoulders, her body angled toward his.

When she pulls away, he lets her go. She strokes his cheek, pushes his hair off his forehead, and searches his face. Steve turns his head to catch her fingers with his lips, so he doesn't have to see the knowledge in her eyes.

"What do you need?" she asks in a murmur.

Steve bows his head to kiss her cheek and then her mouth. This part makes him fumble--he's no good with words. He grazes fingertips along her cheek and down her neck until he can hold her breast--gently--through thin layers of old silk.

She gives a low, throaty laugh into his mouth. He jerks away, worried suddenly that she's laughing at him, but her cheeks are flushed and she looks delighted.

"Yes," she says.

He smiles, relieved. He kisses her again. There are times when thinking about making her feel good is the only thing that gets him through the day. He knows he's not much--no matter what Bucky says, the mirror doesn't lie, and Steve _knows_ he's not much to look at. Not much deeper than that, either, but he's good with his hands and he's learned to be good with his mouth.

She combs her fingers through his hair and pulls him in for a long, lingering kiss. Her tongue is a soft living thing against his lips and then against his tongue and Steve thinks about how she's good with her mouth, too, and how she doesn't need to be at all.

Ruth sighs softly and runs her fingers through his hair. "Where do you want me?" She kisses the edge of his mouth, the height of his cheek, the bruise at his temple.

Sometimes he has her on the couch, spreading her legs over his lap so he can use his fingers and kiss her mouth. Sometimes he has her drape her legs over the room's only chair, and he gets on his knees in front of her--she seems to understand the thrill he gets out of that, his knees aching and her fingers tight in his hair and her voice harsh, and he likes the way she bosses him. Tonight, though, he doesn't want to leave her.

"Can you pull down the bed?"

She kisses him again, smiling against his mouth, and slips off the couch. He lets her go, watching for a few moments as she stretches to pull down the bed, as she bends over it to straighten the covers. When she turns to collect the pillows from the cabinet, he finally stands, and he starts to undress.

But she comes back, and she kisses him, and her fingers close around his, stilling them. He lets her. He takes his fingers from hers and cups her face and pushes his fingertips through her hair, and while she opens the buttons of his shirt and pushes off his suspenders and pulls his shirt from his pants, he kisses her. He strokes his thumbs along her cheeks and holds her head and he kisses her lips, her cheeks, her eyelids. She pushes his shirt from his shoulders, strips off his undershirt, and opens his pants.

Steve opens her dressing gown and leaves it pooled on the floor to wrinkle with his clothes. He doesn't take off her nightgown--sometimes she isn't ready for that when the lights are still on. He does let her take his hands, and he lets her take him to bed.

The bed is big enough for three people to sleep comfortably. They'd learned that if she piled the pillows in one corner and laid at an angle across the bed, there was plenty of room for him, too. That had embarrassed him at first--and then he'd realized that the longer he was comfortable, the longer they could spend like that.

Hours, sometimes. A whole day more than once. Steve thinks a lot about how sweet she is to indulge him.

She pulls him down.

He likes this, lazy kisses and the freedom to touch her in the ways she likes best. She settles back into the pile of pillows and she frames his face with her hands. She kisses his mouth, his cheeks, the bridge of his nose where she smiles against his skin. He flushes because he knows she's laughing at him there. She runs her fingers through his hair and down his neck when he presses wet kisses to her throat. Her head drops back and she trails her fingertips in loops and swirls over his shoulders as he kisses along her collarbone and noses in just under her nightgown. She's warm here. When she arches her back and lifts her knees to cradle his hips between her thighs, he reads her readiness and strips the nightgown off of her, glad finally to have her naked beneath him.

He kisses her like he'll drink her down, kisses her until her fingers curl in his hair and she makes a desperate, breathless little sound. Then he kisses his way down, her neck, her collarbones, her shoulders. Her breasts fit into his hands, small and tipped with pale nipples he takes into his mouth, one at a time, and teases until they're hard against his tongue and her short nails bite into his scalp. He works down her body, lingering just under her breasts in the valleys between her ribs, kissing and licking until she writhes under him. She's skinny enough that he worries for her, but he doesn't say anything. Her hands skate over the bumps of his spine and the press of his own ribs and she's kind enough to say nothing. It's a kindness he can return.

Ruth sighs. "Steve."

He kisses above and then just below her belly button and he slips his hand between her thighs to touch where she's hottest and wettest. She spreads her legs wide for him and scratches gently at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. He parts her with his fingers and sucks a love mark over her hip and when he grazes the tip of his finger over her nub, she goes off like a firecracker in his hand.

He presses his face against her belly and laughs.

She pulls at his hair and then slaps at his shoulder. "Don't," she says.

When he lifts his head to look up at her, her face is red and it's not with arousal. She looks like she's ready to hide.

He kisses her skin and then pushes himself up so he can kiss her mouth, still smiling. "You can ask, you know," he says against her lips. He rubs his cheek to hers and kisses the angle of her jaw, cupping his hand over her, resting the heel of his palm just above her clitoris and the tips of his fingers where she's drenched. "Won't say no. Won't think badly of you, either."

"You wouldn't." She wraps her arms around his shoulders and hooks her knee over his hip. She pulls him down, crushing her breasts against his chest, and she kisses him... tentatively.

Steve pulls away to look down at her.

"You're not the only one with bad days," she says quietly, and doesn't meet his eyes.

He feels suddenly awful. "Ruth--"

She kisses him lightly and pushes her fingers through his hair. She smiles a little, shy and sweet, and he thinks that with him is the only time she's so soft. "I just don't want you believing you're the only one getting anything out of this," she says, and her accent is heavy in a way he's not used to hearing, the dropped _g_ and the drawled vowels.

"No," he agrees, and feels like a heel for thinking so selfishly.

She kisses him again and smiles once more, and instead of shy and sweet the smile is wicked--much more familiar to him. "Now get down there."

He laughs and kisses her through it. "Yes, ma'am," he says, and feels her shiver. He smirks and slides down between her legs.

Here, it doesn't matter that he's small and sickly, that the Army won't take him and no one else wants him. What matters, what he cares about the most, is that he can be good to her. And now he knows he can be good _for_ her, too.

He strokes his hands up her thighs and uses the tips of his fingers to open her up. His eyes flick to her face and she's blushing, breathing a little hard, but she's looking at him. He shivers at that and lowers his eyes as she pets his hair, his shoulders. She's wet and hot and the first press of his tongue to her earns him the soft sweet sigh he lives for on days like this. Her body seems to melt and her fingers still in his hair, cupped against the back of his head. She's spread open, sweet and warm and wanting--wanting _him_.

Steve closes his eyes and it's enough.

She trembles and whispers his name, gasps and sighs and murmurs how sweet he is, how much she likes what he does, and he heats up from the inside out. Steve groans into her when her fingers tighten in his hair and she rocks her hips. Some nights she thrashes and heaves and sobs like it hurts when he wrings completion out of her. Some nights it's like a sigh leaving her body in the darkness, the tension melting out of her and over his tongue. It's a slow night, sweet and warm and perfect, and when she comes, her legs go wider and she arches and tugs at his hair.

He backs off, kisses the inside of her thigh and strokes her knee, and he looks up at her, watches as she collects herself. She's beautifully flushed, skin glowing, and when she opens her eyes and looks down at him and licks her lips, he smiles.

"Again?"

She nods shyly and then, "Yes, please."

It takes longer this time and he doesn't care. When he gets out of breath, he uses his fingers; when his hand cramps like it does when he spends too long sketching, he uses his mouth again. Her pubic hair tickles his nose, his lips. She smells dark and rosy and she's so, so wet. He tongue slips, too little friction, but it doesn't matter because the pressure is enough for her, for the long slow slide.

She pulls at him when she can't take it anymore. Reluctantly, he goes. It's the only place, the only time, he really feels useful or right these days, he hates letting it go. But she maneuvers them until she's wrapped around him, draped half-over him, and she kisses him. He sometimes wishes she wouldn't because she licks the flavor of herself out of his mouth and off his lips and she's not supposed to-- She's a good girl. It seems wrong, somehow. She pushes his hair off of his forehead and smiles at him.

He smiles back.

"What do you want?" she asks.

And he loves her for asking. He glances down, away from her face, but all he sees is her breasts pressed to his chest and the curve of her hip over his. He strokes his hand down her back. "Can I stay?"

She gives him a long, gauging look and he thinks she'll tell him no. He feels a little hollow inside. Normally he doesn't stay--normally he goes home, sleeps alone and misses her. She has so many neighbors and he doesn't want to do anything to damage her reputation. They don't even go out because he doesn't want her to suffer the whispers. It's not the same when Bucky's gone, when the good of being seen with Bucky Barnes can outweigh the bad of being seen with Steve Rogers, and no matter what Bucky's reputation is worth, with him an ocean away Steve's reputation is enough to keep him in his place.

She says quietly, "I hate when you don't, Steve."

He blinks at her.

She's blushing something fierce, not looking him in the eye but instead at his throat. She trails her fingers over his skin, tracing constellations between the freckles across his chest. "I wish you'd stay every time." She glances up, then, and back down, her blush brighter. "I know I'm not supposed to say because it makes me sound desperate, but--"

He tucks fingers under her chin and lifts her face and brushes a kiss over her lips, soft and chaste. "I just don't want people to talk," he says.

She shrugs. "They're going to talk no matter what. At least this way I don't-- It's nice." She hesitates, and snuggles a little closer. She lays her head on his shoulder.

"It is," he agrees.

She doesn't say anything after that and he doesn't, either, too wrapped up in the revelation and he doesn't know what to say, anyway. He lies in the warmth of her room listening to her breathing as she falls asleep.


End file.
